


Cold Awakening

by methylviolet10b



Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Basil can't remember how they wound up in a box. Written for JWP #17: A Cardboard Box. A continuation of the story started inShelter From the Storm.





	Cold Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: A continuation of a snippet from some mousely adventure. Some definite in-jokes in passing. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> Author's Notes: Written for JWP #17: A Cardboard Box. The last time this prompt appeared, [I wound up with mice in the snow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7382014). This time...well, I'm right back where I started, with a little more of the story.

_Slashing claws, so close I felt them catch in my fur… A desperate leap into fast-moving darkness…_  
  
I awoke with a gasp, unsure of where I was or what had happened. My nose and tail-tip burned with cold, but a warm weight pressed the rest of me down. I shifted, and the rustling sound beneath me (not to mention the many tiny prickles through my clothes) told me I was lying on a thin layer of dried grass, doing what it could to protect me from the hard, cold ground. As to what lay atop me, keeping me warm, it was no mystery. Nose and scent only confirmed what I instinctively knew.  
  
“Dawson? David?”  
  
There was no answer to my soft call, no response to my efforts to wriggle out from beneath my friend’s sturdy, warm weight. There was very little light available, just a soft glow seeping in from one corner of the space we were in. I could just make out the details to see it was a cardboard box, weather-beaten and stained but still sound. The dim light kept me from seeing just how injured my friend was, but the pulse in his battered tail was too slow, and the skin beneath the fur on his cheek alarmingly cool to my questing paw. There was no question that my friend needed help, more than could be found in this box. I shuffled over to investigate the source of the light. It was a tear in the cardboard, unquestionably where we had come in, although I had no memory of it.  
  
It was also completely blocked up with snow. I dug a little, but it was no light covering. Judging from the way the light fell and the texture of the snow as I dug, our temporary shelter must be covered with a foot or more.   
  
This kind of snowfall presents great difficulties to larger animals, who must try to wade through it or stay on top of it without breaking through. But is a relatively simple challenge for a mouse, for we simply stay on the ground and tunnel through it. I was sore and tired, and already colder than I liked, and it had been quite some time since I had last had to tunnel like this, but I still remembered the knack.   
  
I had gone just a short way before I heard the sound I had been hoping for: the sound of other paws digging through the snow, just as I was. “Hello?” I called softly.  
  
The digging stopped, and after a few moments, a high voice called back. “’Ello? Brett, is that you?”  
  
Female, or young, or possibly both. “No, madam, my name is Basil. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of difficulty. Could I trouble you for some assistance?”  
  
More silence, then the sound of rapid digging. Before I could start to wonder if I had frightened her away, the snow to my side rippled and buckled. A young field-mouse face poked through and blinked at me with large, startled eyes. “My goodness! No, you’re not Brett, nor Benedict nor Tom nor Peter neither, and you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you look like you’ve been through the wars.”  
  
“It’s been a difficult few days, but I’m all right. It’s my friend who truly needs help.”  
  
The young lady – Marigold – followed me quite willingly back to the box where I’d left Dawson. She made a funny scolding sound. “It’s a good thing you found this place,” she said. “You’d have frozen without it, sure enough. We use it sometimes, as there’s not much cover to be found in these parts. I’d best go get Mother and my sisters, for your friend isn’t going to be able to come to us. Do your best to keep him warm, and I’ll be back in a trice.”  
  
She was as good as her word. She returned shortly with no fewer than seven other field-mice, six sisters and a mother, the eldest carrying a tiny lantern and the rest baskets full of rag-blankets and quilts stuffed with bits of down and fluff. Before long they had Dawson wrapped up and surrounded in a warm nest of bodies and soft covers. Somehow the mother mouse convinced me to join them, too, using the logical argument that the more bodies bundled together, the better it would be for Dawson, and it would help keep her girls warm, too. She insisted on feeding all of us some of her seedy-cake, ‘to keep our strength up.’  
  
I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, Dawson’s startled voice brought me awake. The light of the snow and the lantern was just enough to reveal his utterly gobsmacked expression at finding himself bedded down with more than half-a-dozen girls and one worse-for-wear consulting mousetective.  
  
I laughed for the first time in days.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 17, 2017.


End file.
